The Detective and I
by ariel.vansickle
Summary: Ello, the name's Robyn. Robyn Archer, I live a pretty stale life. This will highly include, a lunatic aunt, a money leeching cousin, and my missing father. To top off the cake and crumpets, a high-functioning sociopath wants to be flatmates with me! What's a hyperthymesia person like me suppose to do? What's hyperthymesia? It's a disease. It means I can remember everything.
1. Chapter 1: The Oddball

A BBC Sherlock. (I do not own the BBC Sherlock series, just the OC, Robyn Archer) Happy reading!  
(And no, I did not spell Robyn's name wrong, her name is suppost to have a Y in it.)

"Okay, nothing to worry about," I mutter to myself, "Just knock on the door. That's it, no worries. The worst he can do is say no."

I raise my cold knuckles, ready to knock on the door. My hand freezes, my insides twisting into a tight knot, tied with worry. Even though my body is an unmoving statue, my heart is booming rapidly in my chest. Every second that passes by, the irregular heart beats thunders loudly in the eerie day's silence. My chest tightens, no air entering or escaping my lungs. Nervousness and anxiety tying me up, not allowing me to move. The worse he can say is no.

And I'm afraid of that.

"Maybe I should wait- NO!" Suddenly, my body jolts in energy. My dark, brown combat boots moving, making me walk in tight circles. "No, I can't do that. I don't have time to doddle on this!" I stop, craning my neck to the door.

The address, 221B pokes brightly in brass and gold, hanging proudly against the ugly green wood.

I sigh, twisting the hem of my black hoodie in my hands.

"I have to do this." I take a deep breath.

Chilly, moist air fill my lungs, easing little of the nervousness. "Now or never, Robyn."

I lift my wrist and _rat-ta-tat-tat_ on the door. I step back, holding my breath as if I dove underwater. Which, what it seems like right now.

I wait...wait...wait. My brow furrows. Isn't anyone home? I knock again, _RAT-TA-TAT-TAT_. My ears stray, carefully listening this time.

"Coming!" Someone cheers. Footsteps _tap-tap-tap_ behind the door, a bit muffled.

The door swings open with a loud creak, revealing a women. Even though her soft wrinkles and brown, grey-streak hair determine her age of being around sixty, she has a particular youth in her eyes. A warm smile etching her lips, revealing a kind, warm person. She is the kind of person to have plenty of friends. No. Not a lot of friends, few, but she is happy with them. Her classic black dress with white polka dots is ironed nicely, no wrinkles, but has a few smudges. A white power of sorts, on her sides in a straight line, while the front is unharmed.

I sniff, a sugary sweet smell invading my nostrals. "Smells good. Baking sweets?"

She blinks, seemingly a little surprised. "Yes, how did you know?"

"Well," I say, a blush tinting my cheeks, "Your dress was recently cleaned, probably this morning. As a tidy woman, you like to keep things clean. You have smudges of flour on your dress. Yet, by the lining of it, you were wearing an apron. Which suggested you were baking, right before I knocked. Also, the smell in the air indicates that your making something sweet. Your treat is near done baking or it's cooling off." I feel my blush growing warmer on my cheeks. I look down the ripped hole, on the knee, of my faded jeans. "Just a simple case of observations."

She surprised look washes into a wide smile. "My dear girl, that's what Sherlock just deduced just now!"

My ears perk up. "Sherlock? He's here?"

"Yes, he is." She peers over her shoulder. Then she leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper, "If you are here for a case, you came at the right moment."

"Why?" I whisper in an equally low voice.

"He's bored."

One of my eyebrows arches up, the other sinks. "Huh?" I ask, a bit confused.

"Yes," she whispers. Suddenly, she straightens up, a smile popping on her lips once more. "Now how can I help you?" she chippers loudly, as if the odd comments before never existed.

"Uh," I say dumbly, "I'm here to ask for Sherlock's help, Miss..."

"Call me ," she cheers. Immediately she turns around, trotting in with dainty steps.

I step inside, close behind. Ms. Hudson shuts the front door and then gracefully glides up the stairs. I follow her up the stairs, quick on the flat of my toes to keep up her pace.

 ** _BANG!_** The sound echos through the flat, the shot ringing through my ears.

Ms. Hudson jumps, clutching her chest. "Sherlock!" she cries, seemingly mad.

I dive between and the blandly, grey wall and dash the stairs two at a time. I burst through the door, my head whipping around.

 **BANG! BANG!**

My eyes land on the source of the disturbance. He stood tall in his bathrobe and PJ's, holding a gun. Steam slithering off of it.

"Stop it! Now!" I demand, my voice loud and harshly clear.

The man turns his head, dark curls mopping his head. Pale skin, almost white, lays smoothly on his face. Eyes, the color of shaved ice, glare at me with an annoyed look. He fully turns, his arm lowering to his side, gun still in hand. He stares at me, his eyes scanning me, up, down, head, toe, stomach, everything. Every single detail he seems to absorb like a sponge.

And he's shirtless, I note, feeling the roots of my hair suddenly go red. Oh, wait. My hair is red.

"Sherlock!" tweets, fluttering into the room. Quite peeved. "Not in the flat! Please! You'll disturb the neighbors!"

She jumps, squawking and scolding the man, Sherlock, like a child whose has been caught in the cookie jar.

"What do you have to say to yourself, Sherlock?" She huffs, putting her arms in akimbo.

Sherlock sniffs, quirking an eyebrow. " , is there something burning?" he speaks in his baritone voice, coated in the common British accent.

"My sugar cookies!" She cries.

Ms. Hudson, flies down the stair in a frenzy, momentarily forgetting her scolding.

I look at the stairs and then crane my neck at Sherlock. Raising my own eyebrow.

He peers right back at me. "What?"

"If anything, , you'll be the death of her ," I deadpan. Which seems to not so far fetched if the gun shots are any hint.

He scoffs, "No she won't. Ms. Hudson is too clever for that."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This guy has an ego.

Sherlock turns around, putting the gun on a table stuck between two long windows.

I glance at the room quickly. To the right of this small, yet spacious flat, is a long couch on one end. Hanging over it is a bulliton board with a bunch of clip outs from newspapers, magazines, and a map that has be fatally wounded by a bunch of pins. Red, blue and black strings zig-zagging on the pins like an unorganized maze. On the right side of the magnificent room are two leather armchairs and a chocolate colored coffee table that has been smacked between the two. An unlit fire-hearth stands proudly, rustic brick clothing it's design. Shelved on top of the hearth, it's accessorized by a few books, glass paper weights, and a skull.

Sherlock picks up his violin bow in both hands. Shutting one eye, he looks at it narrowly on the long end. Obviously making sure it's straight.

"Don't waste my time whatever it is," says Sherlock in a dry tone. "Unless you're looking looking for a flat and flatmate."

I snort. "No- Yes- Uh!" I gritt my teeth, my eye twitching. "Yes, I need a flat to move in, but I'm not here for that."

"Don't waste my time. I have things to do." He picks his violin up, stroking the notes in a velvet tune.

I take a deep breath, smelling the fresh, gun smoke. "I need you to take a case."

Sherlock pauses, turns around and inquires, "A case?" His icey eyes sparking in curiosity.

I smirk, having his full attention now. "Yeah, Shirley. A case."

"Don't call me Shirley!" Sherlock snaps.

"Okay...Shirley." I smile wickedly.

Sherlock scowls, unamused.

"Anyways," I drop my smile, "If you have _stuff to do_ , don't let me waste your precious minutes twiddling your thumbs, playing the violin. I'll come back next week when you have time." I turn on my heel, trudging back to the front door.

"Stop!" he shouts.

I pause, one foot in mid-air. My neck cranking each notch, I eye him over my shoulder.

He glares at me, he speaks to me lowly and quietly. "Tell me everything."


	2. Chapter 2: The Redbox

I do not own the BBC Sherlock, only my OC Robyn Songbird. Happy Reading!

 **Ch 02. The Red Box**

I find myself once again outside of 221B Baker Street. My gaze, piercing the black street in a deadly stare, not looking at anything particular. My mind is in daze, feeling like it just got spun in whirlwind. My thoughts and memories brewing from one thing and one thing only. My conversation with Sherlock.

 _"Tell me everything."_

 _"Everything?" I blinked. Slowly, my body cranked, notch by notch with each movement. I looked at him in the eye._

 _He was silent, his piercing blue eyes staring me down. "Everything."_

 _A few minutes later, I find myself seated across from Sherlock in the leather armchairs. The pale detective slouched against his chair casually, hands interlocked and crossed legs. Not once since he first looked at me, he hadn't stopped staring at me. I not sure if I should find it annoying, creepy, or if its his character. Most likely the first and third option. Or all three. And it doesn't help that he is still shirtless. Why, Sherlock?!_

 _"You're blushing," he commented._

 _"Ever heard that modesty is a virtue?" I crossed my arms, giving him a hard scowl._

 _He doesn't say anything, he just keeps staring. "You're a cage fighter," he suddenly spoke._

 _I blinked, sorta surprised. Huh, guess he's good as they say he is. "Yeah, but..." I dropped my gaze to my feet. "I don't like telling people about it that much."_

 _Silence eloped the room, dead as the grave itself._

 _"What is your name?" Sherlock asked._

 _"Robyn. Robyn Archer," I said._

 _"The case?" Sherlock inquired._

 _I inhale through my nose, the cool, dusty air attacking my senses. I wipe my hands nervously against my trousers, not sure how to start telling this whole mess._

 _"My dad had gone missing..."_

 _Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, not letting a word out._

 _"The coppers found Dad's car on the side of the road, nothing in the car was stolen. Only him gone."_

 _Sherlock, still silent._

 _I swallowed, feeling the air being choked out. "That case hasn't been solved in three years."_

 _"You come to me in hopes to find him?" Sherlock quirked his eyebrow._

 _"No. Well, yeah- Uh! No, I didn't come in that matter!" I sigh. "But I hoped he might be found somehow, though..." I run my hands through my tangled, fiery hair. "Something happened yesterday. It..." I slowly shove my hand in my pocket, withdrawing a single item. "I got this." I placed an envelope on the table, nudging it toward Sherlock._

 _Sherlock leaned over, picking up the item with nimble fingers. He flipped the flap open, pulling an item out of it. His brow furrowed, looking at it with accusing eyes. "A message." Sherlock flipped it over between his two fingers._

 _It was a thick piece of white paper, a few coffee stains tainted its perfection, and letters. Letters cut out from various magazines. It said:_

 _ **Robyn Archer,**_

 **** ** _He's Alive._**

 **** ** _\- S.H._**

 _Sherlock gazed at me, eyes narrowed. "You think it's was me who sent this?" It sounded more of a statement than a question._

 _My eyes landed right back on my feet. "Maybe. A lot of people have S.H. as their initials. Yet..." I looked up, daring to look at the detective. My gaze unwavering. "It doesn't make sense, . After three years of Dad missing, why send me this now? What's the point?"_

 _For the first time I seen it since I stepped into the flat, a faint smile appeared on Sherlock's. "A very good question. Why now? Why not three years ago?" He leans forward, elbows on knees. Speaking in a low voice, "You ask the right questions, yet there's one thing..."_

 _"What's that?"_

 _"The message said, He's Alive, you assume it's your father it's talking about."_

 _I scowled, my eye twitching. "Yes, and that's because Dad is the only man I know in the family." Did he really questioned my common sense?_

 _"Don't you know your grand fathers? Male relatives?"_

 _"Uncle Martin is the only one who hadn't died in the war or lives in Scotland." I huffed, my loose hair flying up. " , even if this message may not be talking about my dad, I still want to know who sent this. And I want to know why."_

 _Sherlock's icey eyes narrow, giving me a calculated look. "You want the truth, despite how ugly it might be?"_

 _"Yes." I narrow, determination burning in my gaze._

The picture of Sherlock disappears from my conscious. A car zooms by, its wheel sliding in and over a puddle. Water splashes all over the sidewalk, drenching my own boots. Water drops skim over the surface, falling back to earth with its siblings. I turn on my heel, walking down the street under the greying sky. Letting my boots taking wherever they step. My mind teeters, roaming to its own accord. Roaming...back to Sherlock.

 _"Hmm, this is... interesting." Sherlock mumbled._

 _He jumped out of his armchair. Leaping to the bulletin board on the other side of the room, the detective seemingly crackled with unexpected energy._

 _"Wait!" I sprung out of my own chair, stopping behind Sherlock. "Are you taking the case or not?!"_

 _Sherlock spun around, facing me. "Think, Robyn. When and where did you find the message? Yesterday?"_

 _"Came in through the mail slot at 12:00 p.m., right after I made my lunch."_

 _"Were you alone?"_

 _"Yeah." I nodded. "Aunt Mag and Cousin Stella went shopping that day."_

 _Sherlock shoves his finger right at my nose. "Did you see anyone leaving?" he said urgently._

 _I closed my eyes, my mind running through the scenes of yesterday. Pictures of my rutty "home" going slow motion. My mind rolling through the memory, pausing at inside of my house's door. My vision moves down, looking at the floor. I see the message hiding in the envelope, lying there with all the mail. The vision shifts from the envelope to the door itself._

 _"I see something..." I said, my eyes still shut._

 _"What do you see?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, lowering his finger._

 _The picture zooms in on the left, a clear figure in the window._

 _"I see...someone...," I squeeze my eyelids, trying to grasp the moment in solid form. "But I can't see their face."_

 _The picture drifted, moving more closer._

 _My brow wrinkled slightly. "This person...has spikey, short, purple hair...lean shoulders and... It looks like they were wearing a black jersey... Wait a minute..."_

 _The picture zoomed in. On the back of the person was what looked to be a shield._

 _"There's a coat of arms. A unicorn on its hind legs and the fleur-de-lis under its front legs. White and Blue background." I open my eyes, blinking in a sort of bewilderment. "I think the person is college student."_

 _"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, quirking his eyebrow._

 _"Because that coat of arms is my college crest." Slowly, I felt my eyes widen, turning to the size of dinner plates. Realization sinking in like stone in water. "Oh, bloody 'ell!"_

 _Sherlock clasped his hands together, his long legs pacing back and forth in the confined space. "Oh, this is good. Brilliant!" The grown detective jumps, jittering in joy. "This is good. Too good. A father missing three years, a message shows up after so long, a suspicious person. Yet why?" The dark haired man spun around, a wide grin consuming every inch on his face. "We don't know! Oh, it's Christmas!"_

My feet stop, not moving another inch. I raise my head, strands of red hair whisping my skin. I see red, a red telephone box. It stood with pride on a lonely corner of the block. The night caressing it as its own company. Maybe...I should take up Sherlock's offer.

 _"You need a flat?" Sherlock blunted suddenly._

 _I blinked, the sudden turn of the subject making my brain do a three-sixtey._

 _"Yeah, why?"_

 _"I play the violin at odd hours, especially when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." Sherlock dashed to the table, quickly grabbing a notepad. "I need a flatmate. Call when you make up your mind."_

 _"Wait- What?!" I gawk, eyes popping._

 _I'm pretty sure if I was in a cartoon, question marks would have flied over my head._

 _He scribbled away at the paper, attacking it with fluent writing. "You said you needed a flat to move in." The dark haired detective rips the paper from the pad, handing it to me. "Or would you rather not be flat mates with a high functioning sociopath?"_

 _"I just don't know you." I rolled my eyes. "Plus you're a man."_

 _"What's wrong with me being a man?" Sherlock brow wrinkled, slighty looking confused._

 _"Can you keep your pants up?" I cross my arms, jutting my hip._

 _"Yes, I can. Is there any more questions?"_

 _"Ye-"_

 _"No? Good! Then I'll see you to-morrow!" The detective turned abruptly, his robe flying dramatically behind him._

 _"So that means you'll take the case?" All of a sudden, I find my eyes crossing. Looking narrowly down a violin stick, which Sherlock happened to be holding._

 _"If I didn't want the case." The pale detective's smirk widened. "You would've been gone already."_

The red telephone box reappears again, reforming into my conscious. Chilly air swims around me, its fingers dancing on my skin. I walk forward, my steps echoing on the concrete. I slip into the box, my fingers curling around the phone. I incert twenty-five pents. I slip my hand into one of my pockets, capturing the flimsy paper. I peer at the neat scribbled letters and numbers. I shove it back in. I dial, punching the correct numbers. Each press made soft metal clicks. Phone rings rumbles against my ear and within the phone.

 ** _Click._**

 _"_ _Ello?"_

"Hi, ? This is Robyn..."


	3. Chapter 3: My College

**The Detective And I**

 **Ch. 03 My College**

(I do not own the rights to the BBC Sherlock, only my Original Character, Robyn Archer.)

Happy Reading!

"Check mate, Robyn."

"Uh!" I slap my head on the table. "Ow." Sudden pain strikes my forehead, the numbing feeling gritting my teeth.

"You know," Jash comments, "That's stone you hit on, right?"

I prop my chin on the smooth, dark table, glaring at him.

Jash just smiles kindly with that little twinkle in his warm, brown eyes. Stroking his short, chocolate, yet trimmed beard. If you ever met my buddy, you would mistake him for an Indiana-Jones-gone-all-jazz with his cherry waist-coat, shiny loafers, shoulder length hair, and ironed suit pants. Not to mention his saxophone that you almost never see him without it.

"I hate you," I grumble.

College kids pass by leisurely, while the professors in their black robes rush with paper buried in their arms. Tall, prideful building desperately reaching for the sky, only to stand so high with their huge, dominant stone. Rose bushes reside peacefully in the courtyard. The standard English College of London.

"Hehehe," he speaks in his quiet, humble voice, "I love you, too." Jash tips his page-boy hat with one finger. "Wanna go another round?"

"No. My brain is fried." I sit up, trying to rub the soreness away. "I got too much on my mind."

"Is it.…" Jash looks around, before leaning in at an even quieter tone that's almost impossible to hear. "Is it the hyperthymesia again?"

"Yeah." I nod. My eyes dart left and right, narrowing. "Alot… of stuff has been happening alot lately."

"You want to talk about i-"

"Robyyyyyyyynnnnnn!" Someone hollers loudly.

"Ooof!"

The air suddenly punches out of my chest, someone squeezes me in a tight hug. Pink hair invading my vision.

"Onyx- You're-" I gasp, "Choking- ME!"

"GuesswhatIsawguesswhatguesswhatguesswhat!" Onyx hops up and down, vibrating like a ping-pong machine on sugar.

"Whoa- whoa- whoa! Onyx, chill my lady." Jash seizes her by the shoulders, trying to pin her vibration despite her short height. "Chill, Onyx. Take a fresh breath and chat sloooowly."

My tiny friend, reels in a deep, deep, deep, deep breath. She holds it, her cheeks puffed to the point she resembled a puffer fish. She holds it. Holds it. Starting to turn purple.

I roll my eyes. "You can let it go, Onyx."

A burst of air comes noisily from her mouth.

"Guess. What. I. Saw?!" She explodes, adjusting her loose sweatpants. Apparently she decided to go hippy with a black, sleeveless v-neck and a hoodie tied to her hips.

"What?" Jash and I say in unison.

"Sherlock!" she squeals. Her legs stomping rapidly. "Sherlock Holmes!"

"What!" We both burst out in shock.

"When? Where?" I nearly jump out of my seat. The sudden buzz of energy zapping me with its own effect. What's Sherlock doing-

A light bulb went off in my head. The case. Sherlock is here based on my statement. No. My memory on the person who delivered the message. The college logo on the person's jersey resides here.

At my college!

"Where is he now?" Jash asks with wonder and curiosity.

" _Everybody dance now~!"_

My mobile phone vibrates against my hipbone, buzzing loudly in the beat of that old song.

"Yo!" Jash taps his hat,. "Change the ring, it murders cats."

"Bloody, Cousin Stella." I roll my eyes, punching my thumb on the screen. "Listen 'ere, you bloody money leeching, heart sucking, coldless, blonde stereotype of an evil troll! I'm not giving you money!"

" _... I'm not blonde."_

I pause, unblinking. That smooth deep voice smothers my ears. Cool words singing logic. That baritone, English accent-

"Sherly!" My jaw drops, snaps shut, drops open again. "How the bloody 'ell did you get my number?! You- You-"

" _Quite simple, really."_ There is a pause, " _Facebook."_

"Whose Sherly?" Onyx asks, doe eyes batting in question.

I facepalm. "Bloody, Stella using my stuff again!"

" _Yes, that annoying cousin of yours. Is she really the stereotypical blonde?"_

"The mean kind, not the ditsy." I blink, brow sinking over my sight. "Where are you?"

"Right here," a English baritone voice says cooley, right behind me.

"AH!" I jump, my arms sharply jab backwards. My elbows hitting a target, resulting a THUMP! And a:

"Uh!"

Spinning on my heel, I look to what, er, who I hit.

"Sherlock!" I cry, quite mad. "You dipstick! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Robyn," he dark haired detective lays flat on the cobblestones, not daring to move. He clutches his stomach wincing.

"Wait! You know this dude?" Jash's dark eyebrows crawl up on his forehead, disappearing under his cap.

"Well, yeah. I only met him yesterday."

"Oh. My. Gosh!" Onyx's purple irises grow wider and wider, turning into the size of frisbees. "You jabbed Sherlock!" she squeals, her smooth skin morphing with fifty shades of red. "Ohmygoshomygoshohmygosh!" Onyx spins a one-eighty at me, her legs jumping as if walking on hot coals. "You. Know. Sherlock!"

My eyes scan around the area. "Onyx. Keep it down." I mutter through my teeth. "People are looking." I can feel the color red starting to skim my cheeks, running up to scalp.

"You. Know. Sherlock." She says in a lower volume, yet with the same level of excitement.

"Huh, it'll be funny if this guy moved in with you." Jash indicates his thumb to Sherlock.

"Actually, she's moving in with me." Sherlock says blankly.

"Huh?!"

Onyx's jaw drops. The shock drops quickly, only to be replaced with an evil smirk. "My, my! A busy bee, are you."

I flush red. "Shut up." I turn my accusing scowl on the detective, still lying on the ground. "You, Mister, we need to talk."

* * *

"Okay, what's going on Sherlock?" I ask, hand on hip while it juted out to the side.

Hiding behind thousands of old smelling books, dark mahogany shelves, and lots of study tables with green lamps ebbing a bright glow. In other words, the college library.

Sherlock quirks his eyebrow, looking bored. "What do you think?" He pulls a book out, flipping through the pages in a flash.

"If I didn't know any better," I lean against the bookshelf, crossing my arms. Side galncing. "I'd say staking out on the hunch I gave you."

"Not a hunch, Robyn." He snaps the books shut, switching it out with another book. "You, my dear, know. It's too coincidental with your college crest on the deliver's jacket. Obviously, he's following you. The only question is finding him."

"So how are we going to find him? There are thousands of students who go here, around different schedules and separate times per semester. And, by the way, no name or face to narrow down. Only purple hair and the jersey, if he's wearing it." I sigh, running my hands through my red hair. "It's a needle in a haystack."

"Easier when you use a magnet on the haystack. Here." Sherlock hands me a book.

I blink for a few seconds, my brain clicking. "The yearbook. Oh geez, why didn't I think of that?" I say in a sarcastic tone.

"Page 27."

I roll my eyes, but obeying his command anyways. Pressing my thumbnail between the pages, I scour to page 27. I blink. The photos contained groups of teens posing in crazy poses and silly faces. Then my eyes land on one face, one purple head, wearing the jersey proudly. He had both of his arms up in the air while water being dunked on his head. The a wide grin stretching ear to ear in pure happiness,like he had no care in the world.

"Scratch Hebb, Junior Football Player." I read quietly. I lower the book, giving a dull stare at my companion. "Well, that narrows it down to last semester."

"But don't you see?" Sherlock just tisks. "By your description by memory, I have narrowed the search by the dozen."

"And how do we know WHERE to find him exactly?" I snap the book shut, folding my arms and jutting one hip out.

"Because he's right behind you."

I go rigid, every muscle in my body turning to dead cold. I gape at Sherlock, I could feel my eyes turn to the size of dinner dishes. At a slow pace, I crane my neck, glancing over my shoulder, at the corner of my eye.

Peeping at the end end of the narrow, aisle, around the majestic mahogany bookcase was a mass of purple hair and a pair of wide green, honeysuckle irises.

"Sherlock…." I croak. Not moving a single centimeter from my sore neck position.

There he is, standing right there, just a few yards away!

I gape at him, but he dosen't see me. He dosen't make any moves, he's just having his nose doved in a really thick book. Silence reeks the room in a award stench, a weird tai-chi slithering in the air.

The guy shuts the book, turns away, and goes to check out his book at the old librarian's desk.

"Let's go!" Automatically, my feet moved. Following the one link to my dad, literally.

Sherlock gave no reply. He just followed me, like a string puppet being pulled.

And part of the day involved running behind bushes, dashing under tables, hiding in the boys' locker room. Don't ask about the last one.

"Bloody!" I curse, bitting my jaw down. "We lost him!"

"How long," Sherlock inquires, "My dear Robyn will you'll be following him?" The detective standing slightly hunched, arms folded as I peek around the corner.

"As long as he's walking on two legs." I huff, hair flying up with the same frustration. "Besides, I need to know what this guy knows."

"Stalking, Miss. Archer."

I whirl around, gritting my teeth hard enough they pain gone numb. "Shut up, Shirley Temple."

"Shirley Temple?" He quirks an eyebrow.

"Yeah." I grin feindishly, terribly annoyed already. "Cause you're cute and have curly hair."

"I'm a grown man." Sherlock scowls deeply, eyebrows lowering dangerously.

"Whatever, Shirley."

The darkhair detective growls. "You don't know the first thing about being a detective."

"Hey! At least I can kick butt, Mr-I'm-too-cool-for-you! Get your head straight-"

"AHHHHHHHH!"

The scream sliced the tension in half, chopping our attention.

Sherlock is gone in a blur, dashing past right past me with quick speed.

"Hey!" I yell, running after him. "W-wait up!"

I speed down the hall, running as fast as my legs could carry me. The I saw the dark haired detective, standing in the doorway of some sort.

"Sher- WHAAA!" I skid to a hult, tripping over the last second past him. Jumping right back up, I shout, "What the blo-! Why did you run off like that?"

He doesn't move. He doesn't respond.

I push myself past him. I stop in my tracks, I could feel my eyeballs nearly popping out of their sockets. The sight making bile rise up in my throat..

Blood pooled on the floor, spreading out in a slow, sticky, paste. The purple hair kid layed face down on the ground, body twisted in a painful position. Yet, the one thing that made me do a double take was….

There was another purple hair standing before the dead one.


End file.
